by Emily Colin
“No,” I say, shaking my head violently. “Not the way you mean.”
“Do you support the Brotherhood, Eva?” The voice is a needle, sinking through the haze of the juniper smoke, prodding me to reply.
“I support what they represent. I cannot stand with the Commonwealth any longer.”
“Why did you help Ari Westergaard escape?”
“Ari is my friend.”
“I see. Why did you lead the Commonwealth to the resistance camp?”
I shift on the mat, fighting the grip of the smoke. Each of my limbs weighs a thousand pounds. “I didn’t mean to. They were using me as a tracking device. I overheard Efraím and the Executor talking. It was in my vitamins. They tricked me. They used me.”
“But you’ve done your utmost to persuade them you do, indeed, stand with them. That you were playing Westergaard for a fool. How do you justify this?”
I force my eyes open. Kilían is standing on the mat in front of me, his features obscured by the mask, hands clasped behind his back. “At first,” I say, the words thick on my awkward tongue, “I did what I had to, so they would let Ari go. After that, maintaining my original story was safest. I wouldn’t endanger the Brotherhood. They were victims, trying to build a better life. Also, to endanger them is to endanger Ari. I would never do that. I want him to be safe. To get away, even if it means I never leave this place.”
Holding my eyes open is too much effort. They sink closed again, and a minefield of tiny pinpricks, bright holes in the darkness, lines the inside of my eyelids. Kilían speaks into the dark. “What do you see? Describe it for me. Every detail.”
Somehow, I am standing, unarmed, in the middle of Clockverk Square. The air around me is silent except for the call of a hawk from the top of the tower; sun glints off the windows of the dining hall, the Rookery and library.
I stand warily in the middle of the square, scanning the perimeter for threats. And then, between one heartbeat and the next, it happens: A wall of fire springs up around the square, solid and as high as I can see, hemming me in. Heat singes my face, bakes into my clothes. My eyes dart from one corner to the other, seeking a way out—but there is nothing.
The fire creeps closer, encircling me. If I reached out my hands, I could touch it.
In the small circle where I stand, a fellow bellator appears, armed for battle. A weapons belt crisscrosses his hips; a sverd is strapped to his back. His face is turned away from me, concealed by a hood. He stands, backlit by fire, but does not speak.
“Who are you?” I demand. “What do you want?”
Next to me, the bellator stirs, shifting his weight. And then he turns toward me and pushes back his hood, revealing Ari’s face.
I can’t help it—my pulse starts pounding, fluttering wildly. I want to throw my arms around him, to let him know I will do whatever it takes to make things right. That if I have to die here, in the flames, I would consider it an honor for his face to be the last one I see.
He stares down at me, his green eyes solemn, and I know what I have to do.
“He threatens the innocent who spares the guilty,” I say.
“Either by meeting or by the sword,” he replies in that achingly familiar voice. And he pulls his blade free.
The flames close around us as I sink to my knees, bare my neck, and wait for the blade to fall. A fitting sacrifice, for the loss of his mother and all she held dear.
A hand grabs my wrist, gripping tight. “Enough, Eva. Can you hear me?” Kilían says.
I open my eyes, trying to focus on his face through the haze of smoke. “I hear.”
“With attachment comes chaos.” The words resonate within my skull, as if it is not his voice at all, but my own. “He threatens the innocent who spares the guilty, indeed. How came you to bare your neck to Ari Westergaard?”
“Chaos is all around us,” I reply. “Lack of attachment will not keep it at bay.”
Kilían huffs out a muffled laugh. “You claim you stand with the Brotherhood, Eva Marteinn. You could have told Efraím all you know about my involvement, and spared yourself much pain. Yet you have kept my secrets and your silence. Why?”
“A wolf will not bite a wolf, Kilían Bryndísarson. So, too, will I do you no harm.”
Even from behind the mask, I hear Kilían’s startled intake of breath. “Why do you matter so much to the Executor?” he presses me. “What happened in the ice tank—how did you hold your breath that way?”
“I don’t know. The Executor told Efraím I was unique. I don’t understand why.”
“Why did you not hold your breath in this room, with me, to avoid the effects of the smoke?”
“I wanted you to know the truth. I wanted you to believe me. Efraím and the Executor are different. They punished me. They are my enemies. But I’ll keep your secrets, on my honor as a bellator. I won’t betray your cause.”
“Is that so? And what do you want? What would you do, had you your freedom?”
“I’d find Ari,” I say immediately. “I’d rejoin what remains of the camp, and fight by their side. If I am to be a weapon, I’ll choose the hand that holds the blade.”
Kilían kneels down next to me and takes my shoulders in his hands. I struggle to focus on his face through the fog of smoke that shrouds the room. “Let justice be done even should the world perish,” he whispers. “What say you to that, Eva Marteinn?”
Casting my mind back to the conversation between Ari and the scholar before we entered the tunnels for the first time—before so much—I muster a response. “Let justice be done, Bellator Bryndísarson, even should the sky fall.”
Kilían’s hands tighten on my shoulders. His masked face, inches from my own, is the last thing I see before the smoke overwhelms me and the world tips, sending me sideways. From far away, I hear Kilían say my name. Then there is nothing but the dark.
31
Ari
Ronan has moved the camp twice since I arrived two days ago. I don’t know why he doesn’t leave this area; staying seems a fool’s errand.
Of the nine members of the Brotherhood who survived the bombing, only five are warriors. There is Adrien, the scout who met us when we emerged from the tunnels—Zoya, his companion, is dead. Then there’s Fadel, another scout, who goes by Fade; Camila, their weapons expert, with almond-shaped eyes and a lilting accent I’ve never heard before; Ronan himself; and Jaxon, his second in command—a tall guy in his early twenties with pale skin, hair as black as a selkie’s pelt, eyes to match, and a watchful attitude. Jaxon does not like me.
The first time we met, he was sitting on the ground, turning a small object over and over in his hands. There were deep purple bruises beneath his eyes, and a nasty burn on his forearm. When he saw me, he got to his feet, closing his fist around the object he held. I caught the deep blue gleam of a gemstone before he shoved whatever it was into his pocket.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Jaxon beat me to it. “Ronan trusts you,” he said, his voice a harsh croak. “He believes everything that guy Kilían said to him about your girl Eva and the bombing. But me—all I know is you got eighteen of my friends killed. You come from a society of savages. And I’ll be watching you.”
Which he has. Every time I turn around, his eyes are on me, dark and haunted. I am glad when Ronan assigns me patrol duty of the camp’s eastern perimeter on my second evening with the Brotherhood. My guilt is heavy enough without having to shoulder the accusation that’s clear enough in Jaxon’s gaze. Once again, the irony does not escape me—in his eyes, Eva and I are the barbarians. It’s the inverse of what I’ve always been taught to believe.
Ronan has trained me on the basics of how to use a gun, cracking his apart to show me how to load the bullets, lifting it to teach me how to aim, but I prefer to use my own weapons. I’m patrolling the border, prowling through the trees with my blade unsheathed, when I hear footfalls. They’re a long way off, but closing fast. Whoever it is, they are moving with assurance, making no effort to conceal th
eir approach—which means they are a friend who doesn’t wish to get stabbed by mistake, or an enemy who believes they are so well guarded they have nothing to lose. Regardless, my strategy is the same: Patience and vigilance. I step behind the gnarled trunk of a giant oak, and wait.
I smell Kilían before I see him: the clean sweat of a man who has been exerting himself, the faint moldering odor of the tunnels, and beneath that, the neutral trace of Commonwealth soap. The top note to these layered scents is what gives him away—juniper. He has marked himself with oil, so I won’t mistake him for a threat.
Two feet from my hiding place he comes to a halt. “Ari?” he says, his voice carrying in the silence of the woods, broken only by the fall of branches and the scurrying of small animals. “I know you’re here. You might as well come out.”
“How are you armed?” I reply, and he laughs.
“What has happened to your manners, boy? What, not even so much as a hello?”
“Hello, Kilían. How are you armed?”
He gives an exasperated chuckle. “I’m armed for battle, Ari. But I’m not here to fight with you. Come out, would you, for the Architect’s sake? Time’s of the essence.”
Carefully, I step from the shadows and clear my throat. Clad in black gear, his red hair tucked under a cap to conceal its telltale shade, he turns in a circle, his face lighting with a relieved smile when his eyes find mine. “Not dead,” he says lightly. “Nor maimed. The night is looking up.”
“Is it? What do you want?”
“Why so hostile?” he says, taking a step toward me. “I’m on your side, Westergaard. Or rather, we’re on the same side. Have you forgotten?”
“And what side is that?” My voice is tight.
“The side of justice. Fairness. And freedom.” He steps closer still, and I don’t like it. My hand falls to my belt in warning, and he stops. “Freedom comes with a cost, Westergaard.”
He regards me with narrowed eyes, and I sigh. “So. Eva.” Her name is barbed wire in my throat. “Is she living the high life, or what? Have they appointed her to the council of High Priests, or made her the Executor’s new right hand? I bet she’s their prize pet, huh?”
An odd look passes across Kilían’s face. “Well,” he says slowly, “not unless you keep your pets on a very short leash.”
I feel my eyebrows knit. “What do you mean?”
“They have her in a cell, Ari. Have had her there, ever since she threw that smoke grenade. I tell you, what I would’ve given to see that…”
“In a cell?” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Who does?”
He takes a step back, eyeing me with caution. “All of them. The Executor, Efraím. They keep her under heavy guard. It was all I could do to work myself into the rotation.”
“You’ve seen her, then?” Despite myself, I feel eagerness surge up inside me.
Kilían frowns, shaking his head. “Don’t even think about it. You’ll never get to her. Even if you could make it back inside, she’s heavily guarded, like I said. There’s two bellators on her door at all times, never mind the guards for the prison itself.” His voice drops lower, into a cadence meant to be soothing. “I know she led them here, Ari. That she’s to blame for the bombing and your mother’s death. But believe me, they’re having their revenge on her, Commonwealth loyalist or no. There’s no need for you to risk yourself.”
“What are they doing to her?” I say, my tone neutral.
He snorts. “What aren’t they doing, that would be a better question. Lie detector tests, electroshock, ice tank immersion, sleep deprivation, the works.” He spins his knife over his knuckles, the edge of the blade catching moonlight. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised they’d treat her like this, after she’s been such a valuable informant. She must’ve really displeased them, tossing that grenade. I’m telling you, Westergaard—that girl’s got stones.”
“Yeah, she does.” Against my better judgment, I envision Eva trapped in a shatterproof tank, filling minute by minute with icy water until only the smallest air pocket remains. I’ve seen people tortured this way, seen them sink into hypothermia, limbs braced against the sides of the tank for the leverage that will afford them a few precious sips of air, fingers clawing at the glass in a bid for freedom. It’s a punishment reserved for the worst of the Commonwealth’s criminals. No matter what heinous acts Eva has committed, I can’t stand to think about her suffering like that. Better to kill her and have done.
“Lie detector tests?” I say, clearing my throat roughly. “Why would they need those?”
Kilían shrugs. “No dissension will be tolerated, and all that. She was their nice little marionette, she played along with them—right up until it looked like your life was on the line. And then she fought back, just enough to cover your escape. So now they have it in for her.” He raises an eyebrow. “She must have known what the consequences would be.”
I stare at him, giving him nothing.
He sighs. “It’s none of my business.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
“You don’t have to look at me that way. I won’t say it again.”
“Say what? That a girl who cared about me enough to endanger her own life would maybe balk at murdering my mother?” I give a harsh laugh. “Don’t bother, Kilían. I have no desire to explore what a twisted little piece Eva Marteinn must be. She made her choices; I’ll make mine. Regardless, it’s not any of your concern.”
“No,” he says. “Except—well, forget it.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he says, examining the blade of his knife. “I came to see that you were all right, and here you are. I need to get back. The camp will be moving on, I suppose, so this is goodbye. Stand strong, Ari Westergaard.”
He turns to go, and I am on him, kicking his knife free and pinning him up against the trunk of a tree, my blade at his throat. “Don’t play with me, Kilían,” I say.
In the light of the harvest moon, I see him smile, as if I have pleased him. “By the Architect, you are fast, boy.”
“You knew that. Now speak, or bleed.”
His smile broadens. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about Eva anymore. What did you call her? A twisted little piece? Imaginative, Westergaard, even for you.”
“Do you want me to hurt you?” The words emerge from between gritted teeth.
Unbelievably, the bastard laughs. “No, no,” he says. “Of course not. I’ll tell you what I was going to say. But in the meantime, perhaps you could remove your knife from my throat? It’s a bit uncomfortable, especially if we’re going to be having a little chat.”
“I bet it is,” I say, but I let up on the blade anyhow, stepping back from him. “Happy?”
“Overjoyed,” he says, rubbing his throat gingerly.
“Fantastic. Pray continue.”
Kilían bends to pick up his knife, keeping a cautious eye on me. “It’s strange, is the thing. Everything I know about the tests they ran on her is secondhand. They won’t let anyone in there. Almost as if they’re afraid to have the wrong person overhear what she might say.”
“Yet you know,” I observe. “How might that be?”
“I have my sources. Someone has to conduct the tests. And even the strongest soldier has a weakness.” His gaze rests on me, considering. “My source says every test they gave her—the lie detector, everything—she passed with flying colors.”
“So she’s not lying,” I say impatiently. “So what?”
“Not just the lie detector test. The ice tank—they kept her in there for twenty minutes before they pulled her out. And aside from slight hypothermia—slight, mind you—she was fine. Held her breath the whole time, and came out swinging. It took two of them to hold her back, is what I heard.”
“For twenty minutes? Your source is playing you, Kilían. There’s no way.”
“That’s what I thought. But it made me curious. So I took her out of her cell myself, to the juniper chamber. They would’ve had me
put her under anyhow, but I wanted to do it without a witness. And so I did.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “She denied everything she’d told Efraím and the Executor, claimed she was on your side all along. That she did what she did to protect you. And then, when I put her further under—she saw the strangest things.”
It takes everything I have to maintain my indifferent expression. “Such as?”
“Well, to begin with—execution in the Square at your hands.”
“What?” My voice comes low, filled with shock. “Eva had me kill her?”
Kilían nods grimly. “That was the only time her heartbeat did anything out of the ordinary—when the bellator pushed back his hood and she saw your face. I had my fingers on her pulse; it spiked sky-high. But the next thing I knew it was back to normal again—slow, even, like she was pacing it. And she knelt and bent her head and waited for the blade to fall.”
“She—what? She knelt there and let me—” Try as I might, I can’t keep the agitation from my voice. “Eva would never let that happen. She would fight me until the end, even if she knew she couldn’t win.”
“That’s what I thought,” Kilían says, his voice careful. “Yet she threw the grenade. Her heart rate spiked. She let you kill her. Why would that happen?”
“Why does Eva do anything?” My left hand creeps downward, toward my weapons belt. With an effort, I still it.
Kilían’s gaze follows the movement of my hand, and he smiles wryly. “I trained you, Bellator Westergaard. Are you lying to me, or to yourself?”
Silence is my only possible defense. So I don’t speak, and he continues. “Wherever the truth lies, I don’t believe you would willingly have put the encampment in danger, or put in motion the chain of events that led to your mother’s death. But something’s not right here.” He looks me over, the set of his shoulders tightening. “You’re hiding something.”
He isn’t wrong—but for him to guess what it is might be disastrous. I don’t trust anyone, not anymore. Exiled from the Commonwealth or no, I have no intention of telling him about my feelings for Eva—much less what’s transpired between us. If there’s the slimmest chance what she told him was the truth—well, then I don’t care to think of what she’s given up...for me. And so I draw a deep breath, brace myself, and lie.
